Yesterday evening, lying in bed, browsing Youtube on my Ipad I came across Charles Dicken’s poem, Autumn Leaves on Youtube. I must confess to not having been aware that in addition to his novels, short stories and travel writings Dickens had, in addition written poetry. This one is well worth a listen. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5ESlzcQqEFY
I sit watching you making my surfaces gleam, my efficient cleaning machine. What do you think as you clean, my hard working cleaning machine? Do you see
a snob? A man to lazy to clean his own flat, with a good job? Do you see me as free, reading with a book upon my knee? Would you like to trade places with
me, To sit in comfort, while I toil with a book upon your knee? Tell me, my equal what do you think of me?
There was a young lady called Clare who liked to dance on the stair. One day she did slip, and fractured her hip, so now she dances on chairs.
On 19 May I published a poem entitled “Her Mother’s Daughter” (see http://newauthoronline.com/2013/05/19/her-mothers-daughter/). In the poem I address how a mother oblivious to the fact that her young daughter is engaged in sex work would react if she discovered her involvement in prostitution. My poem provoked the following response from a lady engaged in sex work
“This is fucking horrible. This entire project is vile. What the fuck are you even doing creating a whole project about sex workers as a non-sex worker based on shitty stereotypes, asinine paternalistic bullshit and inane drivel? As a sex worker myself, this is gross. For the sake of humanity, please stop. You are propagating stereotypes and lies about us and this causes us DIRECT HARM. STOP STEREOTYPING SEX WORKERS. Stop speaking for us. We can speak for ourselves.”
It goes without saying that sex workers can (and do) speak for themselves and that they have every right to do so. However I am extremely concerned regarding the implied view that anyone who is not a sex worker does not have the right to express a view on the issues pertaining to prostitution. If we follow this reasoning to it’s logical conclusion then only black people should speak about matters pertainig to blacks, only white people on issues relating to whites etc. This way of proceeding would stifle literary and, indeed artistic expression and would lead to a debased cultural landscape in which writers and society more generally is frightened of expressing an opinion as it might, just possibly offend some one or other. As someone who is blind I dislike the stereotypes which some misguided individuals hold concerning visually impaired people. However I have no wish to prevent the expression of opinion. If I disagree with views being voiced I can (and will) challenge those views, not by calling for their suppression but by arguing against them as any believer in freedom should do.
As regards the substance of the above quoted criticisms, the commentor makes no attempt to express a contrary perspective. Rather she indulges in that age old trick of shooting the messenger rather than attempting to engage him in debate.
In point of fact I accept the right of sex workers to sell sex and the right of clients to purchase services provided that both parties are of legal age and coercion in the form of threat or violence is absent from the exchange. However that is not at all the same thing as accepting that prostitution has no harmful effects on those engaged in it. Ultimately in a free society individuals have the right to make choices which may harm them (that is an important right which should be respected), however that is not the same thing as saying that one has no right to express concerns regarding said choices. In a democracy free and open debate is essential.
I don’t often include work by other writers here. However I have chosen to include Cynara by the English poet, Ernest Christopher Dowson because it is, in my view one of the greatest poems in the English language. Dowson lived a short life (1867-1900), one full of drunkenness. He is perhaps best known for his wonderful poem, “They are not long the weeping and the laughter”, however he deserves to be better known for his other poems including the below.
Cynara
Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae
Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.
Your mother’s daughter, she is proud of you, but does not see what you do. She does not see her daughter sweet stripped, stark naked from head to feet. She does not see the massage oil, her little girl bringing a naked man to the boil. She does not see him pawing you, the disgust on your face, but what can you do? For, after all he is paying you. She can not look inside your head, see what thoughts trouble you as you lie in your own bed. Could she see inside your brain, the world would reel, her heart fill with pain. Your mother knows not what you do, perhaps that is best for both her and you.
He lived his life like a feather, blown hither and thither forever, by the cold winds of change. Young ladies of pleasure filled his leisure with bliss and pain. He held nothing dear, no one came near, life passed him by, until with a sithe, death came and called his name.
This tree lined street, this gentle breeze, the box like cars passing me. People in boxes afraid to be free, unwilling to escape their own banality. Nature is all around, we choose not to see, people in boxes will never break free.
It must be true, it’s here in black and white, celebrity raped by martian in the middle of the night.
It must be true, paedophiles are everywhere, innuendo and suspicion fill the air.
It must be true, immigrants are stealing are jobs, I read it in that organ of truth, The Daily Slob.
Look at that couple on reality TV, he watched while his girlfriend had sex with is best friend’s wife, but what has that got to do with my life?!
Young lady older man, is there love or a cunning plan? Middle aged man with younger girl, does love exist in this world? What thoughts pass through your heads, as you lie entwined in your bed? Girl are you there or far away? What holds you, makes you stay?
“Oh my darling man why worry? enjoy me while you can. Life is short, I am sweet. Give in to lust then let us sleep”.
K Morris - Poet 